


Breaking Point

by Malandra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dark Dean Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Evil Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark of Cain, Nightmares, Torture, Wincest - Freeform, established wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malandra/pseuds/Malandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something dark and cruel growing inside him, and Dean doesn't know how long until it'll break free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> Had this one sitting around for a while. I actually wrote it before season 9 started, but it is very applicable to the whole Mark of Cain deal. No smut.

_Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m Dean Winchester, man._

Alistair’s sing-song lisp boomed in the dark void that was Dean’s world. His legs and arms pumped furiously, breaths ripping from his lungs and clawing their way through his throat in quick succession. His muscles weren’t even burning anymore, just numb. Was he even moving? Where was he going? Why was his heart beating so hard that he felt his ribs crack with each pump?

A rack appeared in front of him, someone bruised, bloody, and broken stretched out on it. The exhaustion was gone suddenly, the throat-crushing panic receding as Dean’s pupils filled and he dragged his eyes over the form in front of him. A feral urge rose up in him, ugly, cruel, visceral.

 _Cut_.

He wanted to slice flesh, watch it part under his knife, wanted to paint the world with the sweet blood that spilled free. His fingers itched to dig into firm muscles and peel them apart or feel white bone splintering in his grip.

Dean stepped forward, pushing the man’s hair out of his face and forcing his chin up. Shattered hazel eyes stared back sightlessly, glassy and utterly defeated. Dean frowned. His toy was already broken. With a thought, he willed the man back into one piece, watching apathetically as he gasped and writhed, wounds closing and bones grafting back together.

“Dean,” the man rasped, throat intact and suddenly finding the strength to strain against his bindings.

Inquisitive green eyes traced over the swell of the man’s biceps, the power apparent in his bare pectorals, and Dean wanted to watch those muscles work without the obstruction of skin. He hummed to himself, absently enjoying the pleas spilling from his victim’s lips.

Confusion, pain, betrayal.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Trying to reason, trying to cajole, convince, persuade.

“Don’t do it.”

Bargaining, breaking.

“Dean, please.”

“Please!”

And then only screams.

He watched with unadulterated fascination as the man’s body molded to his cuts, flesh yielding so willingly to the blade. Warm blood spilled over his skin as he pushed his hand between the man’s ribs, a delicious scream tearing violently from exposed lungs as Dean’s fingers curled around the man’s heart. It beat furiously, wet and terrified.

“Can I have your heart, Sammy? Is it mine?”

Waking was like running face first into a wall of frigid water, and then drowning in it. Tattered gasps turned to horrified sobs that wracked a shaking frame. Big hands were on his shoulders in an instant, a voice that had been wrecked and screaming only moments before asking if he was alright.

“Dean, focus on me. Dean!”

Dean’s fingers wrapped spastically around his brother’s wrists. Someone was speaking raggedly, their words a staccatoed with sharp intakes of breath that wavered and matched the fluttering of his windpipe.

“Sammy– never gonna hurt you– m’sorry, m’sorry–”

The air was pressing in on Dean, the shadow of a dark instinct working its way into his limbs. He wrenched away from Sam, scrambling backwards until he was pressed flush back against the headboard.

“Stay away. Stay away! Hurt you– stay away!” His voice was torn, words coming out like knives up his raw throat. All rational thought was gone. He just knew that if his brother stayed, Dean was going to succumb to that monster – _I live **inside** you you can’t get rid of me I’m **you** you’re me and we want to **kill**_ – and he’d hurt Sam, tear that heart out and take it for himself.

“Dean– I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just calm down. It was a nightmare.” Sam’s eyes, wide and warm, watched him with barely-concealed panic. Some part of Dean realized that it must be terrifying for Sam to see his older brother like this, losing control. “Stop pushing me away. You’re not gonna hurt me.”

The older Winchester slumped against the bed frame, reality slowly pushing against him in waves. He could feel his breath wheezing up from his exhausted lungs, heart pushing against his chest. Sam was murmuring something quiet and reassuring, so Dean just latched onto the tone rather than trying to understand the words.

He wasn’t going to hurt Sam. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. They were okay.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, barely registering it when his fingers came away wet. With a long sigh, he allowed himself to be pulled against his brother. He went limp, earning a puff of breath on his ear.

“You okay, Dean?”

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, enclosing him in a world that was just Sam. Dean waited until his pulse returned to normal before responding.

"Yeah. M'good."

There was an understanding in that moment. Sam knew Dean wasn't okay, but he also knew better than to ask. Dean knew he wasn't fooling his brother, so he just wrapped his arms around Sam's waist, burying his face in the younger Winchester's shoulder. He complied easily when his brother laid them back, muttering something about hating cuddling out of principle rather than actual irritation. Dean gradually passed out surrounded by a familiar warmth with a comforting voice in his ear.


End file.
